The Swap
by Evil Cosmic Triplets
Summary: Chandler has always been willing to do anything for Joey, because they're best friends, and that's what best friends do. Is Joey asking too much of him this time around? (heed warnings)


**Disclaimer:** I do not own any recognizable characters of this work of fiction, and am making no profit, monetary or otherwise, through the writing of this.

**A/N:** My first "Friends" story; written for my hurt/comfort bingo square - surprise sexswap, which I interpreted as swapping sexual favors, as opposed to the changing of genders.

**Warnings:** dubious/coerced consent, sexual confusion, the concept of exchanging sex for favors, swearing, and a bit heavy, perhaps, for this fandom

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Chandler loves Monica, more than he's ever loved anyone – except, of course, for his best friend, Joey. It's a different kind of love than what he's got for Monica, but he's willing to do anything for the man. _Anything._ Except, well, this isn't quite what Chandler had in mind when he'd agreed to _pretend _to be Joey's 'boyfriend' so that Joey could get some part in a movie.

"Uh, Joey?" Chandler turns to give his best friend a look that he hopes conveys: tell-me-this-isn't-really-happening-and-that-you-d id-not-just-volunteer-me-to-be-some-movie-producer 's-fuckbuddy-for –the-night-'cause-I-gotta-tell-you-bro'-that-just- ain't-cool.

Joey doesn't meet his eyes at first, but when he does, Chandler's forced to look away, because Joey is asking, no begging, him to be Rico fucking Sauvé's companion for the night. Chandler's stomach drops and he can feel his face turning red. His heart starts pounding in his chest, and he casts a pleading look over his shoulder as the movie producer, whose name Chandler hasn't bothered to remember, pulls him toward the bedroom.

"We'll be more comfortable in here," he says, and Chandler wonders if he can talk himself out of this, because, as much as he loves Joey, he doesn't actually _love, _love Joey. They're just friends, and Chandler's never had sex with another man – ever – jokes about the apple not falling far from the tree aside.

"Uh, I…" Chandler's protest is cut off by a kiss, and he's pushed back against the door, which slams shut with a loud, 'click,' that reverberates throughout Chandler's skull.

He feels trapped, and betrayed – scared. The man's mouth is a hot, greedy leech, sucking the moisture from his lips, his tongue, his mouth. The man's got a beard – _Frank, his name's Frank_, Chandler remembers – and it feels scratchy and uncomfortable against Chandler's smoothly shaven cheeks.

Rough hands pull at his shirt, tugging it from his carefully chosen slacks, and Chandler tries to push the roaming hands away, but Frank grasps his wrists in one hand, and raises them above his head, pinning them to the door. His other hand is exploring Chandler's chest, tracing a pattern in his chest hair.

"Fuck," Frank moans the word into Chandler's mouth. Chandler's legs feel more like jelly than anything else right now. Frank's fingers are twisting and pulling on his left nipple, and Chandler sags a little, moaning as he's stirred by the touch. Frank's grip on his wrists is unforgiving, and Chandler's knees buckle, but he doesn't fall.

"Look," Chandler manages to get the word out when Frank finally releases his mouth, "I don't know what Joey said, but…"

That's when Frank's mouth latches onto Chandler's left nipple and the man starts to suckle, and Chandler's words are stolen from him as a soft moan takes their place instead. He squirms in Frank's grasp, and Chandler wonders how Joey is faring with Frank's wife, in his part of this whole, secret sexswap that Joey brought him to, without telling him.

_Probably a whole hell of a lot better than I am_, Chandler thinks when Frank sinks his teeth into his nipple. It isn't a very hard bite at all, and Chandler's confused by the way his body reacts – toes curling, back arching, mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

It feels…good…and Chandler's not sure how he _feels_ about that, because he isn't gay. He isn't. He's not his father. He has no inner drag queen, dying for her chance to pull out the pantyhose and strapless dresses from the closet, and wear them with pride. He has no desire to make love to another man, or have another man make love to him.

He opens his mouth to tell Frank to stop, that he doesn't want this, but then Frank releases his wrists, and, instead of pushing the man away from him, Chandler twines his fingers into Frank's hair, and pulls the man closer. Chandler can feel Frank's lips twist upward in a smile, because they're now pressed against his belly, and when did his shirt get unbuttoned?

Chandler blinks, and then bites his bottom lip when Frank's tongue breaches his bellybutton. It's a strange, wet sensation – no woman's ever done that to him before – and he likes it.

"Bed," Frank growls, and he's half dragging Chandler toward the bed behind him.

Chandler's stomach twists, and churns. _Butterflies,_ he thinks giddily. He feels twelve years old again – hormones all over the place and Mrs. Bradley's double-D's staring him in the face during math class, as he daydreams about her blouse popping open, and giving him a peek at her ample breasts.

He's nervous and terrified, and…stiff as a wooden soldier. Chandler groans, topples onto the bed, onto Frank who laughs in that sexy way that smooth men Chandler's always secretly admired have.

"Aren't you an eager beaver?" Frank's fingers fondle Chandler through his dark sacks, and then they find the zipper. There's a soft, 'schlick,' and Chandler momentarily stops breathing when Frank's thumb brushes against the head of his cock.

"Oh…oh…oh," Chandler can't even think straight, because Frank's fingers are magic, and he doesn't protest when Frank somehow ends up on top of him, straddling his hips.

Frank's fisting his own dick with one hand, and Chandler's with his other. He presses close, and then releases his hold, and rubs his hard cock against Chandler's. Temporarily blind, deaf and dumb, Chandler's fingers clutch at the bedspread as he bucks his hips upward.

He uses his elbows to prop himself up, and he has no idea what he's doing, but Frank doesn't seem to notice, or, if he does, he's not saying anything. Frank's making sounds that remind Chandler of Ross' monkey, and Chandler doubts that he sounds much different.

_This?_ This is something he's never done before, and Chandler knows that he could never have this with Monica. She doesn't have the requisite body parts, and some strap-on dildo's not the same as skin on skin, slick with cum.

He feels a stab of remorse when he thinks of her, but then Chandler's picturing Joey, bent over their foosball table, jeans hanging low, revealing the top of Joey's ass crack, and he gasps as he comes to the realization that he's had these thoughts – fucking Joey – before. Chandler swallows thickly, and he fists the bedspread beneath him. His eyes lock onto Frank's – watery silver, blue – but Chandler isn't seeing them, he's seeing Joey's expressive chocolate browns.

"Fuck," Chandler moans, and he tosses his head back. _Dancing dicks_, he thinks.

Chandler's lost in the pace that Frank's established. Moving, moving, moving. Quicker, quicker, quicker. Slow, quick, slow, quick, and fuck, fuck, fuck, move, move, move, rock, bump, slide…

Chandler feels like he's finally scratching an itch that he didn't even know he had, and now that he's aware of the itch, he can't seem to make it go away. He's scratching, scratching, scratching, and it isn't Frank's mouth on his, demanding more than any woman has ever demanded of him. It isn't Frank's tongue in his mouth. It isn't Frank's fingers digging into his hips. It isn't Frank's dick locked with his own. It's all Joey.

"Joey," Chandler pants, "fuck, fuck, fuck."

He shouts Joey's name as he comes. White, sticky ejaculate warms his chest, dots Frank's, and Frank comes seconds later, some of the man's spunk spots Chandler's face, and, unthinking he licks it out of the corner of his mouth. It's hot and salty, and he surges forward, licking some of his own cum off of Frank's chest.

It isn't until Frank runs a shaky hand through his own hair, and collapses tiredly beside Chandler, pressing his lips to Chandler's shoulder, that it hits him what they've done. What _he's_ done.

Chandler's heart hammers in his chest, and his stomach does a funny little flip-flop. He's dizzy, and sweaty, and…satisfied in a way that he's never been satisfied before.

"That was…" Chandler wracks his brain for the right word, but comes up empty.

"Amazing," Frank says.

"Yeah," Chandler agrees. He hasn't been this tongue-tied since he was in tenth grade and trying to gather up the courage to ask Becky Pendleton to the movies.

Chandler wonders, idly, what Joey and Mrs. Frank Unmemorable-last-name are doing now, and he tamps down on the sharp stab of jealousy that accompanies his thoughts of the dark-haired man bumping uglies with Frank's wife. He's never wanted anything more than friendship with Joey before tonight, and, he realizes, lying shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip, next to Frank, that he isn't ever going to have _this _with Joey, no matter how much he wants it.

Chandler sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and lets the cold reality that is his fucked up life, sink in. He's in love with Monica, that hasn't changed. And, Joey's still his best friend. He loves Joey – always has, and always will. But, it's different somehow. Chandler wants more; he just isn't sure how to ask for it.

When they leave, later that night – long after the party that had still been in full swing when Chandler and Frank had emerged from the bedroom is over – Joey doesn't meet his eyes. He mutters an apology, and promises that nothing like that will ever happen again. He asks if Chandler's okay. Chandler lies – assures him that nothing happened, that he entertained Frank with lame jokes, and cheesy one-liners.

Joey mutters a terse, "Thank god."

His eyes, when he finally looks at Chandler, are filled with relief, and Chandler returns his best friend's shaky smile with one of his own. He's always been good at deflecting.

Joey got the part. Chandler isn't surprised. If he holds Joey a little tighter than he should during their impromptu hug when they say goodnight at their respective doors, Joey doesn't seem to notice, but he lingers in the hallway, eyes following Chandler as he steps into his apartment. Chandler waves, blows Joey a kiss, and winks.

Laughing, Joey shakes his head, and returns the gesture.

"I love you, man," Joey says.

"I love you, too," Chandler says, his voice cracking.

He waits until Joey's disappeared behind the door of the apartment that they used to share before he shuts the door to his own apartment. Monica slips up behind him, wraps her arms around his middle, and Chandler's filled with shame.

He doesn't think he can ever talk about what happened between him and Frank – what it awakened inside of him, or how, after they'd rested, Chandler had let the man fuck him, and he'd liked it. Truth is, he's not sure how he should be feeling right now.

Empty? Happy that he no longer has the wool pulled over his eyes? Terrified? Ashamed? Guilty? Aching? Out of control? Lost?

Monica doesn't say anything when he follows her into their bedroom and changes into his pajamas. He slides into bed beside her, and she pulls him close, lets him cry – _Where the fuck did these tears come from?_ he wonders – and holds him, head pressed against her shoulder.

"I've got you," she whispers, and Chandler knows he doesn't deserve her. He doesn't deserve anyone.

His confession spills out of his lips in between shuddering gasps and tears. Monica doesn't interrupt with questions, and she doesn't push him away. She murmurs comforting sounds and words against his ear, rubs his back with the heel of her hand, and runs her fingers through his hair.

"I'm so sorry," Chandler croaks at the end.

"You've nothing to be sorry for," Monica says, and her voice catches at the end. She presses her lips to his neck, his cheeks, and his lips.

"Sleep," Monica whispers, and Chandler succumbs to the ministrations of her fingers, and her soft kisses peppering his face.

Closing his eyes, Chandler falls asleep, hoping that, tomorrow, his world will no longer be hurtling itself toward the sun in a suicidal orbit, that maybe, in the morning's light, things will look different. That he'll wake up madly in love with Monica and that Joey will be his best friend, whom he'd do anything for. That he won't remember what it felt like to be made love to by a man and that he won't long for it in the cool light of day.

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